The Final Gift
by captdeb
Summary: Julian Bashir is finally a hero, but is the price too high? A dark alternate ending to the Dominion War.


"I've missed a lot," O'Brien said. For a moment his voice sounded hollow in his ears, and his vision darkened and blurred. _Another after effect, _he thought wryly. He focused on his friend's nervous fingers running around the rim of his cup until his vision cleared and the sounds of the replimat once again rang true.

"Yes," Bashir agreed vaguely, studying the neatly trimmed fingernails of one hand. "Four years is a long time to be in stasis."

O'Brien grunted his assent. "It's better than being dead. The doctors on Earth say the technology they used to cure me didn't even exist until recently. Putting me in stasis saved my life, so if you still feel guilty about it, don't." Bashir answered with a vague nod and gazed intently at his tea, a man obsessed with his thoughts. _Dark thoughts, _O'Brien judged as he watched him. _Thoughts he doesn't want to share._ He cleared his throat self-consciously and continued his cautious probing. "So much has changed. I've been through the station logs and the official Starfleet records, catching up with old friends. I was a little surprised when I read you'd left DS9."

"I requested transfer not long after Keiko took you back to Earth. The station didn't feel the same with so many friends gone."

"I guess it wouldn't." O'Brien waited for more, but it was clear that he would have to push Bashir to find out the truth. "I tried to find out your next post, but your record is classified. Funny thing, for a doctor. Where were you stationed?"

Bashir flinched slightly, glancing at him for a second before dropping his gaze back to his cup. "On Earth, in a lab in San Francisco."

"I'm surprised you'd take a post like that. Not quite the adventure you always wanted."

"Believe me, Miles. At that point I'd had quite enough of adventure."

O'Brien studied his friend in silence. Julian seemed to have aged ten years in the last four, his dark hair lightly touched with stray strands of silver, his eyes shadowed and surrounded by a network of faint lines. Though O'Brien could scarcely believe it, Bashir seemed to have actually grown thinner. The most stunning change by far was the soul-deep weariness that weighed upon his friend like a shroud. Those dark, lusterless eyes held no hint of the quick wit or warm compassion that O'Brien had always associated with the young doctor. Something had changed him drastically, and O'Brien was betting that it all went back to that lab.

"So," he said, pausing to sip his coffee, "how long were you there?"

"The lab? A little more than a year. It was very dull, Miles. Not much to tell." Bashir offered a small, unconvincing smile. "I'd much rather hear about you. How are the children?"

"The kids are fine, Julian." O'Brien refused to let him change the subject. "It's you I'm worried about."

Bashir's lean frame stiffened, and his voice became strangely impersonal. "I can't imagine why. There's nothing wrong with me."

O'Brien made a rude noise. "Bull. Something's eating you up from the inside. I know you too well, even after four years. So talk to me."

Bashir shook his head, studying his cup. "I almost wish I could, Miles. But talking about it won't change anything."

"I don't believe that. If you taught me anything, it's that keeping things pent up inside is never healthy. So now you're going to tell me what you did at that lab, and I'm not taking no for an answer." O'Brien managed to catch the doctor's eye and he held the tormented gaze unmercifully until he sensed the younger man's submission.

"They sent me to that lab to do genetic research, Miles." His soft voice was barely audible, and his eyes had dropped back to the tabletop. "They said I was the foremost expert on Jem'Hadar physiology, that they had a landmark project that required my expertise." He gave a short, bitter laugh. "They spoke directly to my pride, and it worked like a charm. Even so, when they told me what they wanted, I refused, flat out. It went against everything I believed in, everything I knew was right."

"What did they want?"

"A weapon. To use against the Jem'Hadar."

"My God."

"I told them I wouldn't do it. But things had gotten so bad, Miles. The Federation was losing the war. Casualties were mounting every day. They -- my new superiors -- told me that I had the power to end the war, that I was the only one who could do it. Not only would I be saving lives, I'd be preserving an entire way of life, et cetera." Bashir's face was unreadable, but the self-loathing in his voice was clear. "I agonized for days, but in the end, I agreed to do the research. It took me a year before I found the compound that would disrupt the genetic sequence of the Jem'Hadar DNA. God help me, I had done it."

O'Brien felt his stomach knot in sympathy and a faint shimmer of disgust, but forced himself to remain quiet while Bashir continued.

"I was onboard the Proteus when the weapon was first deployed. We captured three Jem'Hadar ships near the Cardassian border. Once we had disabled their shields and communications, we beamed the compound aboard the first ship, directly into the ventilation system. We -- I monitored life signs aboard the ship. Within sixteen hours they were all dead.

"We infected the other two ships and allowed them to escape. Everyone was congratulating me, slapping me on the back, calling me a hero. And I...well, I spent the entire trip home in my quarters, throwing up. By the time we got back to Earth, Starfleet was routinely infecting Jem'Hadar ships and releasing them back to the Dominion fleet. It took four months for the genetic virus to spread to all the Jem'Hadar. Both Alpha and Gamma species died by the thousands. Their ships were found floating dead in space, full of rotting corpses." Bashir raised his cup of rapidly cooling tea to his lips and sipped it thoughtfully. "I was given a commendation and duly promoted.

"Starfleet drove the Dominion back through the wormhole with the help of the Cardassians, who switched sides yet again when they saw the tide of the war was changing. Even though my contribution to the war effort had to remain classified, I was offered a very prestigious position at Starfleet Medical. I told them I would think about it, then I went back to my lab and injected myself with ten cc's of cordrazine."

O'Brien's eyes widened. "Julian, that's enough to kill you!"

"That was the idea," Bashir replied wryly. "Unfortunately, my assistant found me and administered a counteragent. In other circumstances, I would have spent several months in a Federation hospital, talking to nice doctors about what was troubling me. But my superiors couldn't take the chance I'd tell anyone about the research. After all, we're Starfleet. We don't engage in germ warfare." His voice was bitter, pitiless in its self-condemnation. "Naturally, the offer of a lucrative post on Earth was withdrawn. I was reassigned to a research outpost on one of the Vulcan moons, conveniently out of the way. And there I stayed, doing virtually nothing, until I was recruited by Section 31."

Bashir sat back, raising anguished eyes to meet O'Brien's disbelieving stare. "So there you have it. The same people who wanted me thrown out of the service for my genetic enhancements virtually commissioned me to play god. With the Federation's blessing, I wiped out an entire race of beings. Not even Khan Singh did that -- hell, what I did makes Khan look like an humanitarian." The hand that was curled around his tea cup was shaking slightly; he frowned at it and made a fist. For a moment O'Brien thought he meant to hit something, but for all he had changed, Julian Bashir was still not a violent man. A few deep breaths later, he raised his head and regarded O'Brien with a face that was carefully emotionless. Except for his eyes. They were like twin storms awash in a calm sea. "I used Section 31's resources to locate the Dominion interment camp where Captain Sisko was being held. Once I knew where he was, I made bringing him back a top priority. I suppose I thought that by finding him, I could find the part of me I'd lost."

O'Brien finally found his voice. "Did you?"

"No," he replied shortly. "I guess it's gone for good."

Cursing inwardly at his lack of eloquence, O'Brien struggled to overcome his shock and find the words that would comfort his friend. "Julian, you knew what it would cost you to find that virus, and you did it anyway. You walked into hell with your eyes wide open. As far as I'm concerned, that's the very definition of a hero."

Bashir pondered his words for a moment, toying with his tea cup. "We won," he said softly. "The Dominion is in defeat, and the Federation way of life has been preserved. If one man can't sleep through the night or face his reflection in the mirror, I suppose that's a small price to pay." Despite his best effort, he wasn't quite able to mask the bitterness in his voice. He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. "It doesn't matter. I'll do my penance."

The undisguised misery in his friend's eyes made O'Brien want to weep in sympathy. "Julian, let me do something for you. I don't like the thought of you being alone, not knowing that you might -- that you could --"

"Kill myself?" Bashir smiled sadly. "Don't worry, Miles. I won't try it again. At the time, I thought I wanted to die, but the doctor who treated me said it was a cry for help."

"Help you didn't get," O'Brien fumed.

Bashir waved him off. "Maybe he was right, looking back. After all, if I had to do it over again, I'd certainly administer more than ten cc's. At least fifteen, I think. Death would be almost instantaneous at that dosage." He blinked, realizing his speech had become clinical and detached. "Sorry, Miles. Old habits die hard. For a moment I actually sounded like a doctor."

"God, Julian."

"It doesn't matter. I won't try to kill myself again. It's no longer necessary."

O'Brien felt a fresh wave of dread wash over him. "Why not?"

Bashir drained his cup and set it carefully down. From a pocket of his black leather tunic he produced something small and silver and began turning it restlessly in his fingers. A small smile played at his lips, and a bright, unstable gleam crept into his eyes. "It's funny how the universe has a way of balancing itself. Cosmic justice, karma..."

Reaching across the table, O'Brien grabbed his friend by the wrists and shook him roughly. "Julian, what the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"I designed the genetic weapon using a substance called Kelvarin 24. We didn't know much about it, only that it was unstable and highly radioactive. We handled it with every precaution, but it seems we weren't cautious enough. Two of my assistants are already dead of degenerative neural failure. Death was preceded by long periods of insanity and vegetation."

O'Brien tried to swallow, but his throat seemed filled with sawdust. "You...you have this disease?"

Bashir nodded. "Yes. I've been lucky so far. The symptoms have been mild. Intermittent vision problems, loss of short term memory. Of course, the things I'd like to forget are perfectly intact."

"Has there been research? A cure, some sort of treatment --"

"Miles, it doesn't even have a name yet, much less a cure. The really funny thing is, they may very well name it after me. Bashir's Syndrome." He chuckled darkly. "And so you see how the universe extracts its revenge. I'm developing quite an appreciation for irony in my old age."

O'Brien stared at him for some time, not trusting himself to speak.. Bashir saw his distress and tried to smile in reassurance. "It's okay, Miles. I've gotten used to the idea. In fact, I'm rather looking forward to it. I'm tired. I'm ready to rest, but I have to pay my debt first. I have to wait until the fates are done with me." The former doctor stretched his lean frame before rubbing his eyes wearily. "Ah," he said, glancing across the Promenade, "there's Garak. He looks quite impressive in uniform, don't you think?"

Unable to answer, the Chief stared miserably into his coffee, barely looking up when the Cardassian approached their table. "Doctor," Garak greeted him smoothly, grasping his arm in greeting. "I can't tell you what a pleasure it is to see you again."

"Likewise, my friend. I was pleased to hear you'd been given a commission. I trust you're enjoying military life?" Bashir gestured to an empty chair, and Garak seated himself with a prim decorum that had befitted an exiled tailor but seemed somehow out of place for a Gul.

"Oh, indeed I am, Doctor. Though I do find myself unexpectedly nostalgic for the life I had here." Garak's blue eyes, framed in that slate-gray, alien face, swept around the replimat efficiently. "It looks very much the same, but...smaller, somehow."

Bashir sighed. "I know what you mean. Only a few years ago, I thought this station was the center of the universe, that nothing important or interesting could possibly happen anywhere else. I was a fool."

"You were naive, Doctor. That's so much more charming than foolish. Don't you agree, Mr. O'Brien?"

The engineer had barely been following the conversation. "Yeah, sure," he said without looking up. How could Bashir divulge such shattering news in one moment, and exchange pleasantries with Garak in the next?

The Cardassian looked as though he might address him further, but apparently thought better of it and turned his attention back to Bashir. "I hope this isn't too presumptuous of me, but I've taken some measure of pride in your success in your new line of work."

"I'm certain I don't know what you're talking about," Bashir answered with a smile.

"No, of course you don't," the Cardassian answered affably. "And I, of course, have no knowledge of just what it is you've been doing these past few years. If I did, however, I would certainly congratulate you on your performance so far. You must know I consider you something of a protégé. Your accomplishments reflect well on me."

Bashir laughed lightly, sounding for a moment like the Bashir of old. "If nothing else, you taught me not to trust or believe anyone."

"An important lesson, to be sure. As for myself, I have learned a great deal from you, as well. But now I must return to my ship, as I have a rendezvous to make." Garak rose with a slight creak of leather. He leaned forward suddenly, grasping Bashir's shoulder and speaking softly into his ear. O'Brien struggled to make out his words. "Do try to let go of your guilt, Doctor. You did what had to be done. You don't deserve to suffer so." Garak caught his gaze and held it for a long moment before releasing his shoulder with a final squeeze. "Mr. O'Brien," he nodded. O'Brien nodded back and watched his back as he retreated.

Bashir's face was impossible to read. "Miles, will you do something for me?"

"Of course."

"Take Sisko back to Earth."

O'Brien frowned. "Worf will do that. He'll have the best of care."

"I know. It's Jake I'm thinking about. It's been a long time, and you know the effect that can have on a family. They'll both need your help adjusting."

Nodding, O'Brien ran a hand over his face. "Damn it all to hell, Julian. There has to be something I can do to help you. Come back to Earth. Stay with Keiko and me for awhile. Visit your folks."

Bashir was shaking his head before he had finished talking. "No. Thank you, Chief, but I have no desire to go back. I've never thought of Earth as home. I suppose this old station is the closest thing to a home I've ever had." A smile crept across his face, even as his eyes lost focus. "It's fitting that it end here."

"End? You mean you're planning on staying here while you're sick?"

Bashir took a deep breath. His voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper. "That doesn't... seem to... be an issue anymore." O'Brien looked up just in time to watch Bashir's eyes widen. He could actually see his pupils dilate from clear across the table. A flush had spread across the doctor's thin face, and he didn't seem able to draw a deep breath. He reached out one hand in O'Brien's direction, unseeing eyes searching vainly for the engineer's face. His questing arm knocked the tea cup to the floor, where it shattered in the sudden quiet of the replimat. O'Brien reached for him with one hand, hitting his comm badge with the other. In the millisecond before the emergency transport grabbed them in its beam, O'Brien felt something pressed urgently into his palm, and then the slight body grew still and heavy in his arms. By the time they materialized in the infirmary, Julian Bashir was dead, a look of infinite gratitude frozen on his weary face.

Miles O'Brien stood at the porthole in his guest quarters aboard the _Chekov_, watching the stars pass in distorted streaks of light as the ship warped effortlessly through space. He felt old, as old as the very stars themselves. Through his reverie he became aware that someone was activating his door chime. "Come in."

The door hissed to admit Captain Worf, who paused awkwardly for a moment before joining the engineer at the window. Neither of them spoke for awhile, content to watch space bend and flow around them. At last Worf said, "I did not get a chance to tell you how...sorry I am about Dr. Bashir. We have had our differences, but I have always found him to be a competent doctor and an honorable man."

O'Brien said nothing. At the end, Julian had clearly not considered himself to be either. Would Worf change his mind if he knew the truth?

Seeing he would get no answer, the Klingon continued. "I have spoken to Dr. Zabinta about your request."

"What did you decide?" O'Brien asked, his gaze still on the stars.

"The doctor and I have agreed to attribute Bashir's death to natural causes. The official report will indicate that he died as the result of a terminal illness."

"Thank you, Worf."

"It is against my better judgment, but Dr. Zabinta seems to feel that whoever poisoned him was committing an act of mercy."

"He was," O'Brien whispered. Mingled emotions threatened to overflow his heart like the foam on a mug of ale. He thought of the brief message he'd received from Garak before leaving Deep Space Nine.

_I could not have called myself his friend and done otherwise..._

Worf returned his eyes to the window, studying the engineer's reflection in the glass. "What will you do now?"

"Go home," he said simply. "Home to my wife and children. I have a lot of time to make up."

"Starfleet?"

"They've offered me an Earthside post, but I don't want it. I'm taking early retirement."

The Klingon grunted. "I am surprised to hear that."

O'Brien felt irrationally angry. "I couldn't wear that damn uniform without feeling sick to my stomach!" Worf stared at him, clearly taken back. O'Brien closed his eyes. "Let's just say that Starfleet doesn't stand for the things I thought it did. I can't be a part of it anymore, not knowing what I know." Even if he could tell Worf, could he make him understand? That the entire idea of germ warfare sickened him less than what Starfleet had done to the soul of one young man?

The Klingon remained silent for a long moment. "I am sorry for Starfleet. They are losing a fine engineer and a good man. But if this will make you happy, then I wish you well." He straightened his uniform with a tug reminiscent of Captain Picard. With a curt nod, he left the engineer alone with his thoughts once more.

O'Brien opened his clenched fist. In the palm of his hand lay a small silver caduceus, a final gift from a man who had already given so much. _Thank you, Julian. For your friendship, your dedication, your noble heart. I promise, I will not let your sacrifice be forgotten._ For the first time since his awakening, O'Brien let his tears flow. He would go home to his children, and he would tell them stories of his friend, the hero.

Outside the window, the stars streaked carelessly by.

End


End file.
